Voices of Humanity

More Voices Part 2

Chapter Two

Kathryn

The ride to our doom seemed to last for eternity. The rain hadn't let up the whole way, banging heavily on the metal roof of the trailer. There were no real windows to speak of, but a few tiny slits along the top of the compartment showed only grey night would shine upon us even if we could see the outside world.

    I was reminded of the stories my mother used to tell of the place between life and death she called "purgatory", a land shrouded in dim clouds and darkness. Leftover stories from the Time Before, when humans ruled the earth. She told us of the misty river where souls would be led by hooded figures, waiting to take a rickety ferry. On the other side, she said, salvation and heaven awaited. But not all would make it to the promised land of blue skies and happiness. Many would drown in those murky waters, their spirits forever forced to swim in an unconscious abyss. To get across one had to pay the ferryman the right fee.

    This trailer was that ferry I realized. We were in a state of limbo, the grey mists of rain splashing in through the cracks in the door and thin slated windows above allowed the grim lake to wash around us. Perhaps my life would be payment enough to ferry me past this miserable state and into an afterlife where I might find the promise of heaven. It seemed the only thing I might hope for.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, I finally heard the engine beneath me sputter and then die. The rain must have stopped at some point while I dozed because I could no longer hear it pattering overhead. Slips of light spread odd patterns on the bed and walls of the trailer, casting the shadows of bars along every inch of space and across our bodies, as if our status as prisoners was now painted onto our very flesh.

    Upon arriving at the market facility, our captors herded us out of the trailers and into a nondescript barn of sorts, separating us into groups by age and size, assigning sibla overseers to each. One by one we were each forced to remove our clothing and face examination.

    The process began with the sharp prick of a needle-studded tag that was punched through our earlobes, securing to us an identifying number by which we could be tracked. When each of us had been duly tagged, our captors began to poke and prod our bodies, writing notes on their clipboards. It was clear they were assessing our potential worth. I'd never felt so violated. So helpless.

One by one we were made to step on a scale to record our weight before being forced into ice-cold showers as harsh voices shouted at us to "clean ourselves well." One meager threadbare towel was all we were granted to dry off. Shivering in the uninsulated concrete building with wet hair I greatly envied the coats and boots our captors wore.

    The next step was "grooming." Still wet and miserable, we were passed along down a conveyer line of sibla who brushed roughly through our hair, taking one final look at each of us before binding our wrists in front of our bodies and shoving us into a packed cell with threadbare mattresses and thin blankets.

    "All of you get some sleep!" the sibla in charge of our group called out. "Big day tomorrow and you are expected to look your best." Still shivering and naked, I couldn't imagine how they expected any of us might gain rest.

    "Here," the man said. He proceeded to hand us all paper cups. "You will be given no food this evening," he informed them. "There is water enough for all in the buckets provided."

    "You never give food to animals before slaughter," one of the girls beside me whispered. My stomach dropped.

    "And no yammering either," The sibla man said sharply, glaring at me. I lowered my gaze and nodded. As the man grunted and left us, I lay down on one of the thin mattresses curling in tightly on myself and trying my best to force my body to stop shivering.